


In the Dark of the Night

by Elvendork



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, MWPP Era, Marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The moon is full. And Remus isn't here."</p><p>Marauder Era, second year. James Potter puts two and two together. Nobody likes the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I simultaneously loved writing this and am incredibly uncertain about the result. This is the longest HP fic I've written in _years_ , and of course it features the characters that I most want to get right (which, naturally, are the characters I'm least confident that I can ever do justice to). I hope that I didn't do _too_ badly. I know it's hardly original, but I wanted to write my own version.
> 
> I do not own Harry Potter, I just spend most of my time mentally at Hogwarts.

Almost two years at Hogwarts have largely desensitised Sirius towards the various eccentricities of his fellow Gryffindors. As much as any further desensitisation was needed, at any rate, after eleven years surrounded by _his_ family and their… habits. It’s a different _sort_ of strangeness, certainly – _very_ different – but Sirius can’t pretend that the combined experiences haven’t inured him somewhat to any quirk of nature his fellow human beings might have to offer.

There comes a point where even he must draw the line, however, and James Potter has just crossed it.

‘Will you close the window, for Merlin’s sake?’ he demands irritably. ‘I’m freezing.’

James hardly seems to hear him. He is gazing out of the dormitory window across the school grounds with an intensely troubled look on his face.

 _No_ , Sirius corrects, watching him closely. He isn’t gazing at the grounds. He’s gazing at the _sky_.

Eventually, slowly, James turns away from whatever has caught his attention outside. He casts a cursory glance around the room to make sure that he, Sirius, and Peter are the only ones present – or the only conscious ones, anyway. A continual stream of loud snoring from the bed closest to the door seems to reassure him slightly. He transfers his attention – such as it is – to his two friends. His eyes are pointing towards Sirius, but he seems to be looking _through_ him more than _at_ him.

‘The moon’s full,’ he says, at long last and so quietly that Sirius has to strain to hear him.

‘Lovely,’ Sirius remarks dismissively, although not as carelessly as he would have liked. Something in James’s tone, or expression – something is off. Very off. Pushing the thought away, Sirius continues, ‘Can you admire it with the window _closed_ , please? Or better yet, go to bed?’

James takes a deep breath, looking altogether too deep in thought for this time of night, and turns back to the window. He makes no move to shut it. ‘The moon is full,’ he says carefully, seeming to weigh every word before he speaks it. He bites his lip. His next words are barely more than a whisper, although whether it is deliberate or merely a side effect of his distraction, Sirius can’t tell. ‘And Remus isn’t here,’ he finishes gravely.

‘He’s visiting his Mum,’ says Sirius, too quickly. ‘You know that.’ He pushes himself halfway into to a sitting position, pauses, then decides he might as well do things properly if he has to be awake at all. He joins James at the window. Peter watches them both silently, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion which perfectly matches the one rapidly growing on Sirius’s face.

‘The moon is full,’ James repeats. For all he is speaking hardly above a whisper there is a certain grim intensity to his voice that sends a chill through Sirius’s very bones. He feels a tingling of foreboding trickle over him and finds his eyes drawn, with James’s, to the clear bright moon above. ‘When was the last time Remus wasn’t here?’ James asks quietly. He looks earnestly towards Sirius, his expression half defiance and surety in his theory, half pleading desperation for Sirius – for anyone – to disagree. It takes a moment for the knut to drop – or at least for Sirius to acknowledge it.

‘No,’ he says bluntly. ‘No.’

‘What?’ Peter interrupts, too loudly. James and Sirius both hurriedly shush him.

‘You have to admit, it explains a lot,’ James reasons, eyes flicking briefly to check that the only other occupant of the room is still asleep.

‘You’re not serious.’

James raises his eyebrows. ‘Prove me wrong,’ he says. ‘Honestly, please, prove me wrong.’

‘ _What_?’ Peter hisses a second time, sitting up in bed and leaning towards them. As one, James and Sirius clear their throats and glance slowly, pointedly, between the full moon and Remus’s empty bed. Several seconds pass before Peter’s eyes grow as large and round as galleons.

‘ _No_!’ he exclaims, hushed but astonished, disbelieving.

‘Think about it,’ says James. ‘Tell me it doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’re not –’ begins Sirius.

‘You can’t mean –’ Peter tries. Both of them are lost for words.

‘ _Merlin_ ,’ breathes Sirius after a long silence. He looks and feels faintly sick. ‘You mean all those times… and… when he was in the hospital wing…’

‘His _scars_ ,’ agrees Peter.

‘And when… Oh, _Merlin_.’

The three friends stare at each other for a long time without speaking. At some point Peter stumbles to his feet and joins them at the window. All three of their gazes turn, like compass needles pointing north, back to the moon, which seems suddenly sinister and intrusive. They wear identical expressions of horror and dismay, and something almost, but not quite, like disgust. Except… no, it’s not disgust. It’s… _pity_.

Remus – _their_ Remus – their friend, their… The four of them are _inseparable_. How can they not have known? How can they not have _realised_?

How can Remus not have trusted them?

For Sirius, at least, and he suspects for James and Peter as well, this last thought isn’t one of indignation or betrayal. It is a confusing mixture of feelings that none of them have quite the vocabulary to describe, but most easily identifiable is perhaps… Self-recrimination. _Guilt_.

How can they not have been there for him? All those times… all those times he’s been _alone_ , and how afraid he must have been, must _be_ , every day, that someone might discover his secret…

And now they have.

_What are they supposed to do about that?_

Do they confront him? Reassure him that whatever he thinks, they are not going to abandon him? (Because of course, _of course_ , it makes sense now, why he is always so… _surprised_ , so _grateful_ to be included… How can they never have seen it before?) Or would it be better to ignore it? To let him think that all is as it was, that his secret is safe?

None of them can quite process the idea fully. None of them know _how_. It is too big, too awful, to comprehend.

After what feels like a very long time the silence is broken not by one of them, but by a long, low howl that echoes and weaves around the grounds like a living thing before dying slowly away to nothing once more, as though it was never there. All three boys jump, then look at each other with wide eyes as though waiting for someone, anyone, to contradict them. To tell them they are wrong, and everything is alright really. Everything _will_ be alright. No one does.

‘Do you think that was…?’ Peter asks tremulously.

‘Him?’ finishes Sirius. His voice is shaking. They both look to James as though for guidance.

‘It came… I think it came from Hogsmeade,’ James suggests. ‘Do you think…?’

‘The Shrieking Shack,’ Sirius breathes in realisation. ‘It’s not haunted.’

‘No,’ it is Peter this time. Sirius can’t tell if he is agreeing or disagreeing. He looks rather green.

‘It’s _him_ ,’ Sirius finishes.

Another howl – louder, longer, and impossibly lonely (or perhaps they are just imagining that part – they hope they are just imagining that part) splits the night.

‘That’s Remus,’ says Sirius. It sounds almost like a question – almost.

‘Shut the window,’ says Peter, though not with any real conviction. He looks as though he might cry. ‘I can’t – please shut the window.’

‘No,’ Sirius objects. ‘Leave it open.’ His expression is one of sympathy rather than disdain when he looks towards Peter, though. ‘Go back to bed, Pete,’ he says. ‘We can put a silencing charm around you so you won’t hear.’

Peter hesitates, clearly tempted, and Sirius doesn’t blame him. He finds the prospect of what he and James have wordlessly agreed to do daunting enough, and he strongly suspects that he has a higher tolerance for this sort of thing than Peter. Not that he has ever experienced anything quite like _this_ , but again… growing up surrounded by his family does have its (questionable) advantages. He knows how to deal with discomfort.

‘No,’ says Peter eventually. ‘I’ll stay.’

Neither James nor Sirius reply; both simply nod. The three of them arrange themselves into semi-comfortable positions around the still open window. James and Sirius perch half on, half off the sill, while Peter sits on the floor between them with his shoulder leaning against the wall. There is nothing they can do for their friend, really, and they know it. Even so, they each feel as though they should – even if there is no possibility that he could be aware of it – just _be there_ , keep him company in the only way they are able.

So they sit, and eventually they sleep, hunched up and cold and uncomfortable, forcing themselves to listen to the howls through the night. They will not leave Remus, and they will figure this out.

Somehow.

00000

When Sirius wakes up his neck is stiff and his back aches. Sometime during the night he and James have slipped off their half-perch to the floor. The pair of them, together with Peter, have ended up huddled together in a messy tangle of limbs against the wall beneath the window. It takes Sirius a moment to realise that the surface beneath his cheek is not his pillow, but Peter’s shoulder. Groaning slightly and squinting against the morning light, he raises his head and almost instantly regrets it. It hurts to move.

‘What –?’ he begins groggily, vaguely attempting to sift through his most recent memories for a reasonable explanation. He feels… heavy. Though his cheeks are dry, his chest holds the sort of numb hollowness that comes after extended crying, and he has the distant sense that something _awful_ has happened.

‘Ow,’ Sirius hears James’s voice dimly and blinks to try and clear his blurred pre-wakefulness vision. He pushes himself slowly into an upright sitting position, wincing with every movement. James does likewise, tugging his arm from where Peter has been leaning on it, looking around the dormitory as though unsure of where he is. Peter shifts and mumbles something incoherent, surfacing into consciousness with as much reluctance as his friends.

‘Did that…’ Sirius tries, as the events of the previous night filter gradually back into his recollection. They seem like half a dream; impossible and unreal, something vivid but imagined, it _has_ to have been imagined. It can’t really have happened. Can it? ‘Tell me last night wasn’t a full moon,’ he says, though his voice is flat and hopeless.

‘Last night wasn’t a full moon,’ says James dutifully. There is no humour in his tone.

Sirius drops his head back sharply so that it thuds on the stone wall behind them and ignores the pain. ‘Tell me Remus isn’t –’ He only just has the presence of mind to check for eavesdroppers before closing his eyes with exhaustion. ‘Tell me Remus isn’t a werewolf.’

‘Remus isn’t a werewolf,’ James replies, after a quick double check of the dormitory. They are the only ones present.

‘Great,’ Sirius manages dully. ‘Now say it like you mean it.’

‘What are we going to do?’ whispers Peter between them, finally unfolding himself enough to prop his back against the wall as well. They are still close enough for their shoulders to touch, and all three are reluctant to move away from the comfort of their friends’ presence even though the hard floor is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to sit on. Neither James nor Sirius has an answer; they are still struggling to assimilate their realisations of last night into their perceptions of reality. It just can’t have really _happened_ , can it?

‘Do we confront him?’ asks Sirius, hardly aware of the increasing habit that he, Peter, and Remus have all developed for looking to James for answers.

‘What are we supposed to _say_?’ James replies, sounding lost and frightened and _young_. ‘I mean – he obviously didn’t want to… Does he think…?’ He lapses into silence, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows on them with his head in his hands. His fingers tangle into his hair, nails digging into his scalp.

‘He thinks we’re going to abandon him,’ says Peter in a small voice.

‘We’re _not_ ,’ Sirius retorts forcefully. ‘We’re not.’

‘I know that,’ Peter snaps.

‘Shut up, you two,’ James interrupts. ‘I’m trying to think. Of course we’re not abandoning him. But will we make things worse if we tell him we know?’

‘We could be wrong,’ Sirius sounds almost hopeful, but not quite.

‘We’re not,’ James replies.

‘Surely if we tell him we know, and that we don’t care –’

‘ _I_ care,’ James argues, looking suddenly angry. ‘Of course we _care_.’

‘Not like that,’ says Sirius, knowing that James is only angry because he doesn’t know what else to be. Knowing that he feels the same, and making every effort not to let it show. ‘I mean we don’t – he’s still our friend, right? He has to know that.’

‘But what if he thinks we’ve – I don’t know, betrayed his trust or something?’

‘We weren’t _spying_ on him,’ Sirius retorts. ‘We just _noticed_. He can’t have expected us _never_ to work it out – it’s not like we were following him or something.’

‘We have to tell him,’ Peter says, his voice full of quiet conviction. ‘It’s better to let him know, surely? That we know and we’re not leaving him? And we won’t tell anyone? We _won’t_ tell anyone, right?’

‘Of course we won’t tell anyone, don’t be stupid,’ Sirius snaps and immediately feels guilty. ‘Sorry,’ he says awkwardly.

‘I think we’re going to have to tell him,’ James says. ‘Do either of you think you could see him and _not_ give it away that we know?’

Sirius and Peter exchange an uncomfortable glance. No, they couldn’t, and they know it. It will be written all over their faces the moment they catch sight of him. And the moment he catches sight of them, he’ll know that they know. He’ll assume the worst. But they can’t confront him where anyone else is likely to hear. They will need to speak to him alone straight away.

‘I didn’t think so,’ says James resignedly. Finally he raises his head, dragging his fingers down his face and heaving an enormous sigh. ‘When do you reckon he’ll be back?’

‘What time is it?’ Sirius asks, half craning his head to try and see out of the window above them. It is full daylight outside and the dormitory is empty apart from them, on a Saturday, so that must make it at least midmorning.

‘He might be in the hospital wing,’ Peter suggests. None of them have yet made a move to stand up.

‘Should we wait for him to get back here?’ James asks. Neither Sirius nor Peter reply for a long time.

James takes several deep breaths, as though preparing himself for something he desperately does not want to do, then pushes himself in one swift movement to his feet.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘Here’s the plan.’ Sirius and Peter both watch him expectantly. Sirius, at least, tries not to display just how grateful he is that _someone_ has a course of action in mind. ‘We are going down to breakfast. No arguments. We are going to eat and pretend nothing has happened. Then we are going to come back here and we are going to wait in the common room until Remus arrives. We’ll go somewhere, the four of us – alone – and we’ll tell him that we know and that we want to help. Agreed?’ He does not question whether Sirius and Peter will want to help; he knows the answer. He has no idea what they could possibly _do_ , but there must be _something_.

‘What if he’s at breakfast?’ asks Peter. ‘He’ll know we know.’

‘Then we just move the plan forwards a bit,’ says James. ‘Coming?’ he offers one hand to each of his friends and staggers slightly as they accept and he helps pull them to their feet. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Right. Here goes.’

‘Here goes,’ echo Sirius and Peter, and follow James from the dormitory like men walking to the gallows.

00000

They make a genuine effort to appear as though everything is normal through breakfast, but they are so woefully unsuccessful that even the scattered few other students present seem to notice something is wrong. No one talks to them. Sirius’s stomach is churning and he does not eat much. Neither do James or Peter. All they can think of is the upcoming confrontation with their friend, and how horribly wrong it could go. Of the howls that they fell asleep listening to last night, and the terrible weight of guilt for not having realised sooner, for letting Remus suffer alone all this time.

At one point Sirius remembers a particularly nasty looking scar on Remus’s upper arm; he remembers Remus’s excuse of a childhood Quidditch game gone wrong, and feels sick as he realises the probable true cause. He does not know which is worse; the thought that a good proportion of their friends’ obvious past injuries must be self-inflicted, or the thought that at least one of them was _not_ self-inflicted, and was the cause of it all. At that thought the rush of anger towards whoever did this to his friend is so strong that Sirius’s grip on his porridge spoon becomes painful, and James has to nudge him gently in the arm to bring him back to reality.

‘We didn’t know,’ James whispers, pitching his voice low and looking carefully around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. ‘It’s not our fault.’

‘We know now,’ says Sirius.

‘And we’re going to help,’ says James. ‘We _will_. But we can’t change the past.’

‘I just – I keep thinking –’

‘I know,’ James soothes. Sirius believes him; if there has ever been anyone in the world who understands him without needing to explain himself, it is James. ‘Trust me, I know. But it’s not going to do anything to keep thinking about it.’

‘Right,’ says Sirius. ‘Right.’ He takes a deep breath and looks back down at his porridge. He isn’t hungry, but he tries several more mouthfuls anyway and waits for James and Peter to finish. He does not fail to notice that each of them, sitting either side of him, maintains almost constant contact with him somehow, so that the three of them make an unbroken chain, elbow to elbow: An unmistakably united front.

It is an enormous relief when they retire together back to the common room.

00000

It is almost lunchtime before Remus leaves the hospital wing. He does so, as usual, with extreme caution. He cannot, he _cannot_ risk being seen. He thinks, after all the practise he’s had, that he could probably come up with a plausible explanation even on the spot, but the effort of doing so is exhausting. He is _tired_ of having to lie to everyone, all the time, and terrified of what would happen if he stopped. He feels guilty every time he misleads his friends – he can still hardly believe he even _has_ friends – but the risk of losing them is too great. He doesn’t think he could bear it if they left him now.

The walk back to the common room is familiar and as nerve-wracking as ever. Even once he has put a deniable distance between himself and the hospital wing he is still jumpy and paranoid every time he encounters another student. He can’t help but be half convinced that they can read the guilt of his secret all over his face. It is always the same after a full moon, and the residual ache of his transformation doesn’t help. He can get away with looking worried, he knows; that will only lend credence to his sick mother story, but he cannot risk looking _in pain_ , no matter that his muscles protest with every step and all he wants to do is sleep for an entire day.

 _It’s worth it, though_ , he tells himself. It will always be worth it, he has to remember that. The secrecy, the worry, the leftover irritability and soreness that he has no choice but to hide – what are they to the opportunity he has been given? What is a little monthly discomfort (he knows, and chooses to ignore, his own tremendous understatement) to being allowed to attend _school_? To having _friends_? What _wouldn’t_ he give to keep this, all of this? What wouldn’t he willingly, gladly put up with just to be sure that none of it is taken away?

This thought bolsters him enough that he only has to stop for a moment outside of the portrait hole to gather his courage before giving the password and entering the common room. He would, he knows, be afraid and in pain almost anywhere; he does not get a choice about that. If he has to go through it, though, he would far rather do so here than anywhere else.

Here, with –

Oh.

No.

 _God, no_. _Merlin,_ no.

All of the breath goes out of him. His heart lurches in his chest and his legs turn to jelly. He feels sick.

 _Oh please no_ , no _, please_ –

 _They can’t, they can’t, please,_ please –

He stops short, brought to such an abrupt halt that he actually sways on his feet.

The sound of the portrait swinging shut behind him had caught Sirius’s attention. His friend had turned, casually, absently, as though hardly realising he was doing it. He had looked at Remus.

He is still looking at Remus. And his eyes – his expression –

 _He knows_.

Remus feels like turning and running, like crying, like shouting, like, like – he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. His brain is stuck, and he can’t – he can’t process it, because – they _can’t_ , but Sirius looks so – this – he _can’t_ –

Sirius is nudging James, and then James looks around and his mouth opens just slightly but no words come out, and then he nudges Peter, and all three of them are _looking at him_ –

Remus can’t do it. He can’t. Not here. Let it not be _here_ , at least, because Mary Macdonald is looking around now and Frank Longbottom is frowning and –

He flees. He doesn’t pay attention to where his legs are taking him, he just has to _get out_. He finds himself, moments later, in the thankfully deserted second year boys’ dormitory, breathing hard and fighting back tears.

He should have gone in the other direction. He should have – something, he shouldn’t – they’re going to follow him up now and confront him – but isn’t it better to get it over with here, in private? Then again, maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll be too afraid, too _disgusted_ to be in the same room as him anymore. He is choking on air now, _he can’t breathe_ , and his vision is swimming, his heart is hammering so hard that it hurts and he feels lightheaded –

‘Hey, calm down, it’s okay –’ Fleetingly there is a hand at his back, making an aborted attempt to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Aborted, because the instant Remus feels their touch he flinches away in terror, as though from a harsh blow.

‘What – what –?’ he can’t speak, he can’t even _speak_ for Merlin’s sake, his throat has closed up and his world has narrowed to a space barely large enough to contain his own body, let alone anything else. His panic is overwhelming.

‘It’s okay, Remus,’ says another voice. It sounds frightened, but not – not angry? How can it not be angry? ‘It’s alright. We know, and it’s okay.’

‘I’m – I can’t – what?’

‘Breathe,’ says the first voice, which Remus dimly registers sounds like Sirius. ‘Just breathe, Remus. We’re here. Just breathe.’

Remus gasps desperately for oxygen, half doubled over with his hands on his knees and more ashamed now than he ever thought was possible. Is it not enough that _they know_ , that they are going to abandon him and he is going to be alone again, that he is _always_ going to be alone? Does he have to make _this_ their last moment together? Can he not at least face reality with a _little_ dignity left?

It does not register to his terrified mind that they have categorically _not_ abandoned him just yet, and that if they were planning to do so then they probably wouldn’t be standing around trying to calm him down before they did.

Eventually, still shaking and gulping down lungful after lungful of air as though he has just been saved from drowning, Remus manages to look up. There is a bitter, sick taste in his mouth. His skin prickles with heat and his insides feel like ice water. He swallows. James, Sirius, and Peter are all here. All of them are watching him nervously; like he is some sort of wild animal they are afraid to approach. That thought is almost enough to startle a harsh, desperate laugh from Remus. He thinks he might be getting hysterical.

He does not notice what would be obvious to any outside observer: That their fear is not _of him_ but _for him_. It does not occur to him that were they truly reluctant to approach they would not have followed him willingly into a confined space. He does not realise, for a long time, that Sirius’s hand is still hovering above his back uncertainly, or that James and Peter both look close to tears.

‘You know,’ he says eventually. His voice shakes. He daren’t look any of them in the eye.

‘We know,’ confirms James. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Am I –?’ That _does_ force a slightly manic-sounding laugh out of him. ‘ _Am I okay_? You’re asking… if I’m _okay_?’

‘Umm… yes?’ James replies. ‘You – you were… panicking a bit.’

It takes every scrap of courage Remus possesses, but he does manage to look James in the eye now, and he cannot begin to make sense of what he sees.

‘You’re… I’m… you were… worried?’ he asks incredulously, hardly daring to believe it.

‘Of course we were worried,’ Sirius replies furiously. ‘You looked ready to pass out!’

‘But – you know. You said… _what_ do you know?’

 _Oh Merlin_ , he thinks. What if he’s got it wrong? What if they _don’t_ really know? What if it was something else? They’ll find out now, for sure – if they didn’t know when he stepped through the portrait hole, they will soon enough, there is no way he can hide after this.

‘We know you’re a –’ Peter glances around and lowers his voice so much that Remus has to actually read his lips. ‘ _Werewolf_ ,’ he finishes.

‘How – how did you – what – why are you here?’ He can’t work it out. It doesn’t make _sense_ , and the confusion is only making his panic worse. There is something else building in his chest, too, though. Something he daren’t acknowledge. Something dangerously, painfully like _hope_.

‘Because you’re our friend,’ says James, frowning.

‘But – but I’m – you know, and you’re still –’ Why can’t he even manage full sentences? He jumps and gives a sharp gasp as Sirius’s hand settles at last on his back. It falls away quickly, but the contact leaves a single spot of pleasantly tingling warmth behind, because – well, Sirius _touched him_. He obviously doesn’t think – but that’s dangerous, that’s the way to getting his heart broken even more thoroughly that it already will be, already _is_.

‘We’re still here,’ confirms Sirius. He looks grim and more than a little daunted, but determined. Remus gazes at him for a moment with wide, disbelieving eyes, then looks across to James and Peter. He hardly dares to breathe.

‘We’re not going to abandon you,’ says Peter. ‘Whatever you think, whatever you’ve been afraid of – it’s not going to happen.’

Remus’s eyes are darting between his friends frantically, searching for confirmation, for denial, for – for _proof_ , for anything that he can believe, because he cannot believe this.

‘You don’t know,’ he begins, ‘You can’t realise… Do you know how _dangerous_ I am?’ A horrible thought strikes him. ‘It’s not just some… some party trick or…’ _Why is he_ trying _to drive them away?_

‘We know that,’ Sirius counters roughly.

‘I’m not me, when I transform, I’m not –’

‘We know that, too,’ says James.

‘We heard you last night,’ says Peter. ‘It was… awful.’

‘Sorry,’ says Remus automatically, not even sure what he is apologising for, or why, or what good it will do.

‘Don’t be _sorry_ ,’ Sirius looks astonished, disbelieving. ‘It wasn’t _your_ fault. It was awful because we kept thinking of you being alone, and we thought you might be hurt, you sounded – the wolf sounded…’

‘Lonely,’ James interjects.

‘We slept with the window open,’ Peter tells him.

‘We know it was stupid,’ Sirius puts in quickly. ‘We just… didn’t want you to be alone. You’re _not_ going to be alone, okay? We’re not leaving you. And we won’t tell anyone.’

‘You… won’t?’ Remus’s heart is still beating double time, but his breathing has calmed down to an almost normal rhythm, and he doesn’t feel quite so much like he might collapse at any second now. Is this – can this _possibly_ be real? Can they know, _really_ know, and understand, and still… be here?

‘Of course we won’t,’ says James. The rational part of Remus’s mind, which is overcautious and constantly planning three steps ahead for the worst possible outcome, insists that this is not true. It is far, far too good to be true, to be happening to _him_. The other part – the part ruled by his desperation and loneliness and fierce love for his friends – is faint with relieved joy. ‘You’re our friend.’

‘But I’m a werewolf.’

‘We thought you’d gathered that we’d figured that out already?’ asks Sirius. He is smiling. _Smiling_.

‘But –’

‘You were our friend last week, weren’t you?’

‘I – yes.’

‘And you’ve been –’ James stops, seeming to realise that the more they say the word itself, the greater their chances of someone overhearing it are. ‘It happened before you came to Hogwarts, right? That’s why you’re away every month?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then we’ve known you for a year and a half and you’ve been – you’ve had a problem that whole time. Just because we _know_ about it now doesn’t change who you are.’ There is a determination in James’s face and voice that is uniquely him, a sort of resolute conviction that Remus has never known anyone else to pull off.

‘You really don’t – you’re really not going to… leave?’

‘We’re really not,’ says Peter.

Remus’s legs are seriously threatening to give out now. He only just makes it to sit on the edge of his bed before they fail completely. Sirius quickly takes a seat beside him and unhesitatingly puts a hand on his shoulder. Remus looks around at them and struggles to put his feelings into words. He struggles to even define them to himself. There is such a flood of relief and of disbelief running through him that he feels as though he is floating. He feels dizzy, shaky and stunned and so, _so_ grateful that he doesn’t know how he could ever express it. How can he ever, ever make them understand how much this means to him? How can he dare believe that it is _really happening_?

‘You look like you’re going to faint,’ observes Sirius.

‘I still might,’ Remus laughs weakly. He finds himself automatically leaning sideways into Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius does not flinch away or tense up or any of the things that a large part of Remus is afraid that he will do. He pushes gently back and grins.

‘If you do, I am _not_ carrying you down to the hospital wing bridal style, okay? I don’t care what you say.’

‘We could levitate him down,’ says James seriously. His lips twitch with amusement as he sits on Remus’s other side and adds his weight to the odd sort of triangle, so that Remus is essentially being propped up on either side by his two friends.

‘I think a bucket of cold water might do it, myself,’ says Sirius.

‘I don’t know,’ Peter chips in. He walks around to the other side of the bed and hops up. Without even looking Remus leans back while James and Sirius swing their legs up and twist around, so that the four of them are resting their weight on each other’s’ shoulders in a surprisingly comfortable pyramid. ‘I think if we just sort of waved a chocolate frog near his nose it could work.’

‘I like Peter’s idea,’ says Remus, raising his hand and smiling with his eyes closed.

‘Peter’s idea is no fun,’ complains Sirius.

‘I never said we’d let him _eat it_ ,’ Peter counters.

Remus grins. He can’t help it. There is a long, companionable silence before he speaks again.

‘Thank you,’ he says, barely above a whisper. ‘I’m… thank you. So much.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sirius objects, butting his head back gently so that it knocks reprovingly into Remus’s. ‘We told you. We’re your friends. You don’t need to thank us for being your friends.’

‘I mean it,’ Remus persists. ‘You don’t know how much this means –’

‘Remus, you practically had a heart attack because you thought we were going to abandon you, or out you, or – whatever it was you thought was going to happen,’ James says. ‘Trust me, we know how much it means to you. And it shouldn’t, because it should be something you can expect, but we know it isn’t and we know this is going to be difficult and scary and – horrible. And we can’t imagine what it must be like for you, because – and I think I’m right in speaking for Sirius and Peter here too – it was bad enough just _listening_ last night, knowing that was you. I don’t want to think about what it must be like to live it. But we’re here, and we know, and we’re staying, okay?’

‘Thank –’

‘Don’t thank us. Seriously. If it hadn’t taken us this long to figure out – Look, just, this is happening, alright? Trust us. You don’t need to be grateful.’

‘But I am,’ Remus hopes that his voice doesn’t sound _quite_ so choked up as he thinks it does.

‘We know,’ says Sirius. ‘But we haven’t actually _done_ anything yet.’

‘What? Of course you –’

‘All we’ve done is give you a panic attack and then talk you down from it. We haven’t _helped_.’

‘Sirius, you – you can’t help me. There isn’t a cure, it’s not –’

‘I _know_ that,’ Sirius interrupts.

‘We all know that,’ confirms Peter.

‘But we’re going to help you. Somehow,’ James repeats. ‘We don’t know how yet, but we will. We’ll think of something.’

Remus opens his mouth, overwhelmingly touched and still half afraid that he is dreaming, but cannot find the words to express the multitude or the depth of his feelings. He doesn’t know if the lump in his throat is from relief or joy or fear or just sheer love. _Thank you_ doesn’t even begin to cover all that he wants to convey to his friends right now. Nothing, _nothing_ , will ever be enough to pay them back for this. Just this. For just sitting here with him, for not leaving, for being three solidly dependable, _real_ presences literally supporting his weight so that he does not fall flat on the bed. He heaves an enormous sigh.

‘We know,’ he hears. He isn’t sure which of them is speaking. He isn’t sure any of them are speaking at all, but he basks in the words nevertheless. ‘We know, Remus. We’re here. We’re staying.’

 

 


End file.
